


Yesterday, Separate, In the Evening

by Black_Betty



Series: This is a story of Love and Honor [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, M/M, Past Character Death, Requited Love, True Love, Unrequited Love, and then sex, medieval-esque worldbuilding, taboo relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:19:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/pseuds/Black_Betty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Tournament, Anthony Stark loses everything he owns, and everything he is. But he still has some friends left, and maybe, if he's lucky, something more...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yesterday, Separate, In the Evening

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY. So this is the long awaited coda to In Your Honour featuring Tony and Steve. I'm so sorry for not wrapping this up in the original story, and then for taking so long to write something for them...Writing Tony Stark kind of freaks me out, because he is witty and clever, and I am...not...after much deliberation, I think I finally have it figured out how I want this to go...thanks for all the lovely people who expressed an interest in seeing more of this! I hope you're not disappointed!!
> 
> I've written "Tony" in this fic, as it is in Tony's voice, and I can't see him referring to himself as "Anthony," though the others still do...
> 
> (This follows directly after In Your Honour--you should probably read that before you read this, but if you're not into Charles/Erik, who are the main pairing of that fic, you could probably just get away with reading chapters 2 and 4, which feature Tony....)

 

. _..All the immense_  
 _images in me -- the far-off, deeply-felt_  
 _landscape, cities, towers, and bridges, and_  
 _unsuspected turns in the path,_  
 _and those powerful lands that were once_  
 _pulsing with the life of the gods--_  
 _all rise within me to mean_  
 _you, who forever elude me._

_...Who knows? Perhaps the same_   
_bird echoed through both of us_   
_yesterday, separate, in the evening..._

~Rainer Maria Rilke

 

It was a beautiful morning when Anthony Stark stood in the courtyard of his ancestral family home and watched as his entire life was dismantled before his eyes. He tilted his face up to catch the sunshine across his cheeks, unable to keep from smiling. If the world had a sense of symmetrical poetry, the day would have been full of storm clouds and lashing rain, a gloomy dawn of shrouded sun and long shadows to suit the mood.

Instead there was more than enough light to see his possessions brought out one by one to be sold off to the highest bidder. The memory would sit heavy in his mind in years to come, of the new heat of morning seeping into the thick velvet of his grandfather’s favourite chair; of stark sunshine glinted brightly off of his mother’s jewelry, casting a kaleidoscope of ruby and sapphire patterns on the cobblestones. The warming gold of late summer casting merry beams over his life’s work, his various genius creations of metal and silver and iron, swords that were more works of art than weapons. As Alphas from near and far ran grubby, undeserving fingers over the perfectly balanced tangs, the carefully carved hilts.

Charles was there, sweet and beautiful Charles so new to his marriage, to his maturity, and painfully young. Currently, he was arguing fruitlessly with the sharp-nosed auctioneer who was trying to extricate himself from his dogged Prince as politely as possible.  Tony watched him fondly from a distance. He could see the man Charles would become and he would be formidable, and undeniable in anything he set his sights on. Unfortunately, his life was still controlled by the King for a while longer. Like Tony’s was. Maybe in a few years Charles might have been able to stop them from stripping everything from Tony, but it would not be that bright sunny morning.

“It isn’t right.”

The voice came from behind him, but he recognized the measured, low tones, seemingly emotionless, but concealing a greater depth of feeling that the boy hadn’t yet figured out how to convey safely. Tony knew what it was not to trust others, and so he had always felt he understood Erik, felt a kinship with him almost as close as the one he felt with Charles, who came from the same money, and the same repressive, loveless kind of household.

He shook himself and dug in deep, pulling out a smile that was almost genuine and plastering it across his face.

“No, indeed it is not. But it was my choice, and I made the decision knowing full well what the consequences would be.” He turned then to look at Erik, standing with his arms folded across his chest, the sunlight glinting red in his hair. He was a remarkably handsome young man, though he would probably never understand the effect he had on others. Even now as he scowled over at a clutch of young women in light coloured cloaks, they did not cower before their victor, and future consort-king. Instead they twittered and swooned at his attention and continued to string Anthony’s grandmother’s antique pearls around their throats as though they were nothing but costume jewelry.

“It still isn’t right. And it makes me sick.” Erik said finally, jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth together, and Tony, watching the girls alongside him now, couldn’t help but agree.

A gusty sigh caught their attention, and he had the pleasure of watching Erik’s entire countenance shift as Charles strode over to them, his cheeks still flushed with frustration. As soon as he was in range, Erik’s arm went around his waist, and Charles leaned into him as though it was the natural motion of his body, their spines curving the same way, Charles’ forehead tipped against Erik’s cheek. Together they were heartbreakingly bright, and beautiful. There was a sudden pang behind his eyes, and Tony had to look away for a moment, afraid he’d be blinded by the sight of them.

“There’s nothing for it.” Charles said, capturing his attention again, and when Tony looked back to him, his huge blue eyes were painfully earnest and apologetic. “I really tried Anthony, but he wouldn’t budge. Not even an inch. I’m so terribly sorry.”

And he truly sounded it, completely gutted and defeated, and Tony felt that pang again, the one he always felt for these two boys, who he had come to think of as _his_ boys. His and Stephen’s…

“Charles—“ he began, but Charles huffed and interrupted, pushing away from Erik to glare over his shoulder at the auctioneer, who wisely kept his gaze otherwise occupied,

“No!” he said, “What’s the point of being a royal, of dealing with all the awful rules and trappings, and court and Kurt, if I can’t do a damned thing for my friends when they need it!?”

Erik, frowning and looking as wretched as Charles, drew him backward, squeezing his arms tightly around him, and when he calmed, Tony drew him forward into his own embrace.

“That you tried is enough Charles. Thank you.”

Charles body shook with the same tense anger a moment longer before he went limp, all the fight drawn out of him.

“It’s my fault,” he murmured into the thin material of Tony’s shirt, his voice uncharacteristically small, and fragile, “it’s my fault this is happening to you. If you hadn’t entered the Tournament—“

Tony shushed him, stroked one hand through the thick waves of his hair,

“No Charles.” Charles pulled back to look at him,

“But—“ and Tony only cupped his face, brushing his thumbs over his cheeks, staring into those lovely eyes; his sweet, fierce Charles who he would have given up everything for, who he loved almost more than anyone in the world. Almost.

“No,” He said, “and I’ll not hear another word about it.” Charles looked ready to argue for another minute before nodding glumly and hugging him close again.

“Besides,” Tony said, releasing Charles and sweeping an arm grandly around, encompassing the entire courtyard full of his possessions, “who needs this stuff anyway? I can always make more. Or take on a mendicant lifestyle, playing the lute and traveling the countryside, unfettered and free, earning bread through song and magic tricks—“

“I’ve heard you play the lute, and believe me, you’re not going to make any money that way.”

Anthony braced himself, as always, and tried step farther away from Charles, fearful the Prince, with his rare sense of perception would be able to notice the rigidity of his body. Ensuring his smile was still bright and in place, he spun around to see Stephen walking toward them, the broad shoulders cutting a clean path through the glistening, vapid courtiers who broke against him like furred and bejeweled crests of wave.

He stopped when he drew level with them and offered Anthony a small, sad smile, genuine and private, and familiar. It was truly sad how that smile sent a warm thrill through his body, a smile from Stephen, tailored just for him. And Stephen, standing amongst all his worldly possessions, all the riches of the past generations, rooted out from the west, hoarded close by those who came before him, he _shone_.

“I’ll have you know I play one hell of a lute,” he sniffed, “it’s less about skill anyways, and more about style,” he grinned and winked at Charles, “and I have nothing _but_ style.” He paused, and then laughed, and even to his own ears the laughter was high-pitched and too loud. “Literally,” he said, purposely ignoring the way Stephen’s face creased into a frown, “I literally have nothing left but style.”

“Anthony,” Stephen began, but he shook his head, waving his hand dismissively.

“No, no forget it. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize—you have every right to be angry—“ he bit off his words, and Tony looked down to see Stephen’s hands curled into white-knuckled fists. He allowed himself a moment of selfishness, and clapped his hand on Stephen’s shoulder, squeezing tightly for a moment before forcing himself to let go. They had hashed it out, the two of them after the tournament, after the crippling fear for Charles and Erik had passed, when the royal proclaimation had been made that all Stark lands and possessions were forfeit. They had strategized and debated, had gone around in circles for hours, but there was nothing to be done. And It was no good being angry when there was nothing to be done. All they could do now was accept the inevitable.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Charles broke the tension.

“What will you do now?”

Charles had tried to get Anthony lodging in the castle, or within the walls of the royal summer estate, but the King would have none of it. After years of Anthony’s allegiance, his military aid, his family’s good name, it all meant nothing. He had asked Charles not to debase himself further by prostrating himself at the feet of his abusive, tyrannical stepfather, and had told him he would make other arrangements.

He had not. He had tried, but it was the same response everywhere. He was anathema now. He was pariah, taboo. There was no one willing to align themselves with him. That lingering, deep-seeded panic that had been building in the days after the Tournament crept up in his throat, threatening to choke him, and he swallowed it down.

He opened his mouth to give another excuse, drawing together his familiar mask of lighthearted nonsense to divert and distract when Stephen spoke up instead.

“Now we go home.”

Anthony sighed, resigned, and tried not to look as downtrodden as he felt. Looking around at the auction which continued to surround him like an inevitable tide he said, “Yes, you should probably go, there’s not much else to do here. I’ll send you all notice when I get…settled in.”

When he looked back at the three of them, Stephen was staring at him, a dumbfounded expression settling across his face. Erik snorted a laugh, and said,

“I told you,” to Charles, whose face was creased in such empathy, Anthony worried for one horrifying moment that the blue in his eyes might flood over.

“What?” he asked, and Stephen finally shook off his incredulity, and said, bluntly,

“Anthony, you’re coming home with me.” As if it was the most obvious thing in the world, as though it was easy, as though Stephen was giving anything up, wasn’t putting all that he was at risk by even associating with Tony. A guilty spark of indignant hope flared up inside him before he could suppress it.

When he didn’t say anything, Stephen just shook his head and muttered,

“Come on then,” turning, and striding away. Tony looked at Charles and Erik for answers or direction, but Erik only rolled his eyes at him, and followed after his Lord, squeezing Charles’ hand before striding away. Charles came up behind Tony and slung an arm around his waist, watching the other two men make their way toward the horses, broad shoulders and light hair, legs for days, Stephen clapping a hand on Erik’s back.

Charles tilted his head against Tony’s and he took a minute to appreciate what he had left, while all around him pieces of his life were being stripped away, piece-by-piece.

It hit him then, finally, settling in his gut like a bright flame that would not be extinguished, no matter how hard he tried to douse it. Even if it were only temporary, he would be _living with Stephen_. Suddenly his mood seemed to suit the morning.

Suddenly life was looking a bit brighter.


End file.
